


Dressed by your Glory

by Pakeha



Series: Child of the Enemy [5]
Category: The Mummy Returns (2001), The Mummy Series
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Ephebophilia, Feminization, Jewelry, M/M, Master/Slave, Mild Inflation Kink, Mild Nipple Play, PWP, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 00:35:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2487947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pakeha/pseuds/Pakeha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imhotep takes full advantage of his prize, draped in gold and glittering jewels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dressed by your Glory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [werecorgi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/werecorgi/gifts).



> Werecorgi asked for Alex in a dancer's outfit and Sheyeyt asked for him to be stuffed and plugged and I sort of halfway filled each request. I hope you enjoy it any which way. 
> 
> As always im picturing a late teenaged Alex.

They bring him artifacts of the past, relics of a golden age swallowed by time and sand and the inexorable shift of power from one king to another. He is impressed on occasion to see what has been salvaged. Objects of great refinement and delicacy have been brought to him in nearly as fair a condition as he might have expected to see in his own time. Beads may bear a few more cracks for age, there may be new golden threads replacing strings long turned to dust, but on the whole these ornaments are comfortingly familiar. 

In particular, there is a collar. 

It is composed of corals and turquoises and gold and was presented to him by a lowly pawn in the first days of the this newest life. He had spared the follower a rare half-smile, inclining his head in the barest angle of approval while the man scrambled away, hands clasped before his bowed figure in gratitude. 

The piece was made of alternating sections of fine, layered bead work, and large enameled gold panels which hung heavy and glittering over the wearer’s chest. On either end of the breast piece was an elaborate gold scarab set with turquoise and lapis wings, each insect holding in its mouth the end of the string which was tied around the wearer’s neck. 

All along the bottom of the piece dangled large, glass beads shaped like tear drops. The cloudy glass was the colour of a misty dawn, the surface of each bead worn so smooth as to feel nearly _soft_. Luxurious. Sensual. 

Imhotep had always had a fondness for glass. 

With a brief twist of an appreciative smile Imhotep reaches out runs his touch over the row of beads, admiring the way they roll and glitter on top of Alex’s skin. 

The boy’s breath hitches as he looks down at the priest’s hands, unable to hold back the impulsive twitch which besets his muscles when those calloused finger tips roll the beads which sit just over his nipples, the flesh-warm baubles bouncing as they skip over the pebbled peaks. 

His prize looks so lovely in such fine adornment. 

Making a shushing sound under his breath Imhotep tilts his head to the side appraisingly and shifts his hand so his thumb rests over the bead nearest to Alex’s right nipple, the rest of his hand cupping around the bulk of the boy’s ribs. Steadily, deliberately, he presses down on the piece of smooth glass, rolling the pressure from the base of his thumb to the tip, massaging the sensitive bud. 

Alex’s breath leaves him in a tight gasp, his eyelids sliding half shut. 

“Sweet, child.” The priest murmurs, letting up on the pressure and flicking at the bead with his thumb so it bounces over the nipple. Alex’s whole body jerks, startled. His breath comes quicker. 

“You’re learning it’s so much better when you don’t fight.” 

With a last trace of his nails over the boy’s skin Imhotep draws back so he can pick up his glass of wine once more, reclining across from the boy on his pile of cushions and dark rugs, enjoying the gentle swaying of the train. 

For a second Alex just pants, eyes glassy and unfocused, but the priest can see the moment when his words register and the boy’s eyes narrow and he finds his tongue again. 

“Bullshit.” He grunts, not even trying to mask the shiver as he forces his body to relax from his taut position, settling back into a pile of cushions of his own. His legs are folded under him, somewhere between kneeling and a crouch, but his shoulder blades are pressed against the rug-covered wall of their train car, keeping him steady and giving him some respite from the position. 

“I’m just biding my time.” 

Imhotep knows the boy intends the words to be goading, but he can’t find it in himself to rouse any irritation. He finds the boy too charming. Like a temple cat who thinks he’s a lion. 

He smiles and murmurs “Your continued fight only makes your inevitable surrender all the sweeter.” 

Putting his glass to his lips he tilts back the last swallow of wine, savoring the dark, full flavor. Then he sets the glass aside, a top a crate full of wonders he has yet to unpack. 

He lets his thumb run over the lid of the crate speculatively for a moment before simply turning to face his prize. 

Alex sees those eyes burn with planning and promise and his stomach twists into knots. He shifts uncomfortably under the weight of the elaborate collar, refusing to show self consciousness about his otherwise nude form. It’s warm enough in the train car that he is not uncomfortable, it is only the bareness which sets his hair on end. The vulnerability, the constant openness to perusal; It makes him feel like an object, or an animal, and underneath his new ornament the old gold collar still encircles his throat, the long, fine chain attached to it still snakes, glittering, across the space between him and his captor. 

The other end is coiled lovingly around Imhotep’s fingers. 

Imhotep preens as he watches the boy’s eyes travel the length of the chain between them, frustration a blunt and obvious color, but he no longer wrestles with the metal. He no longer attempts to break it. 

They are finding their stride and that is good. His prize is beginning to bend. 

Lazily Imhotep begins to pull off his robe, setting down the chain just long enough to pull his arms from the sleeves. He leaves himself even barer than Alex, free of adornment, with a cock which is rising swiftly to the occasion. When he relaxes back against the pillows he gathers the chain again in to his fist and slowly begins to wrap it around his hand, the gold chiming as the slack is consumed, the glittering thread rising up between them. In the moment just before the line becomes taut Imhotep leans forward and draws Alex’s gaze away from the chain which connects them. 

“Come to me.” He murmurs. And he smiles. 

Alex swallows. 

Steadily, though he rises. He goes all the way to his feet though he would only have needed to crawl forward a few feet to bring their bodies together. 

For a long moment he stands still, body moving just slightly as it counteracts the swaying of the train car. Dim lamplight pierces through the fine incense smoke which perpetually fills the car, and paints the boy's body in dusky hues of orange and gold. He is glorious, even as he looks down at Imhotep, his face a storm of familiar frustrations and defiance. Imhotep keeps his eyes trained on the boy’s face but the edges of his vision drink in the delight of all that warm pale flesh. Exposed. Proud. 

The moment stretches for a long time until Imhotep is tempted to lift the chain in his hand and make it chime in gentle reminder, but the boy breaks first and with a sigh he steps forward and lowers himself to sit astride the man’s thighs. 

It takes him more than a little effort to situate himself. His own boyishly thin legs must spread wide to fit over his master’s, exposing the beginnings of arousal plainly for the priest’s inspection, his balls hanging down heavy in the space between Imhotep’s own slightly parted legs, his muscles tensing and relaxing as the priest lowers his hands and begins to stroke up the tops of the youth’s thighs. 

“Good boy.” He praises and lowers his head to begin to suckle a spot high on the boy’s throat above the collar, feeling the warmth of young blood rushing to bruise and it’s so sweet it makes him ache. 

“Not your boy, old man.” Alex scrapes out and Imhotep pauses for a breath because the protest is new in word if not in tone, then he laughs against the sweat and saliva that coats the skin beneath his lips and returns to his task. 

The boy has at long last ceased denying that he takes any pleasure from their couplings, not that Imhotep ever had any doubt. The boy’s ecstasy is his own satisfaction, and he works pleasure out of the boy with the same heady determination he has ever done anything else in his life. Anck su Namun has teased him: she has said that the boy has bewitched him, that the boy owns him through these acts. 

The thought is amusing. Not because it is impossible, but because it gives the O’Connell heir far too much credit.

Someday perhaps the boy will overcome his pride and learn of the real power he could wield, but not today. He is too young, and he burns too bright. 

Today the teenager simply rocks his hips forward, his cock rising to fullness and grinding against Imhotep’s, his head tilted back and his eyes screwed shut as he keeps tight reign on all his delightful, boyish groans and whimpers. Imhotep smirks against his skin and adds teeth, a sharp bite which makes the muscles in the boy’s shoulders and neck jump under his kiss. 

His hands stroke up the boys thighs and around to cup his ass, kneading it firmly before spreading the cheeks, not touching the teenager’s entrance yet but simply exposing it. He sets his thumbs deep into the muscle, just before the top of the pelvis and he expects the tight little gasp which flees Alex’s lips, expects it and rejoices in it. He encourages the boy in his thrusts, tugging him in closer, holding him tighter to his own body. 

Between them the beads of the collar pinch and roll. 

“Good, Alex.” He murmurs. 

The boy falters. 

Imhotep has no desire to draw back from the skin he is still lapping at, but he knows if he did he did he would see shock on Alex's face, uncertainty. 

He’s never called him by his name before. Not here. Not during these acts.

“Fuck-” The boy chokes out and starts to hump forward again, a little less coordinated than before, a little more eager. His hands have come up to wrap around Imhotep’s shoulders, holding on as tight as he dares, fingers worrying at the dense muscle he finds there. 

“Fuck, what is wrong with you?” Alex manages to grunt the question out between thrusts and Imhotep laughs, pulling on the boy’s ass cheeks one more time before letting go, sliding his hands up so he can grip the boy’s hip bones and push him back on his thighs, removing all contact between their cocks so the teenager can only whine, glaring down at the priest. 

In the spaces between the beads and the panels, the skin under the collar is flushed red and hot. Imhotep strokes his thumbs over the creases where Alex’s hip bones meet his groin and suppresses the urge to reach up and pet that flustered flesh.

“Nothing is wrong with me, child.”

Alex frowns. For a long moment he just stares at Imhotep, then he wriggles backward, trying to put even more space between them but Imhotep won’t have it. His firm grip turns bruising until Alex stills and remains where he has been placed. The boy scowls and grumbles. “You’re an undead mummy-priest out to destroy the world who thinks fucking unwilling teenagers is a good way to spend your leisure hours. I think there’s something bloody well wrong with you.”

Alex means it to be insulting but all Imhotep can do is chuckle. He leans his face in very close to the boy and watches him as he swallows his fear. 

A tremor quivers through Alex’s spine. 

It’s the most delicious thing Imhotep has held in his hands in a long time.

“I find you charming, boy.” The priest murmurs, squeezing Alex’s hips again, hard enough that he knows there will be marks in the morning. He does not relent until the boy shuts his eyes and tries to draw away. “If I were you I would not try so hard to change my mind.”

Words rise up to Alex’s lips but Imhotep can see the moment the boy catches himself and swallows them, his gaze cast to the side. _Fuck you_ hangs silent and petulant in the air and Imhotep chuckles again, sliding his hands up to cup the boy’s ribs. 

“Good boy, Alex.” He croons, and the teenager physically flinches, but he keeps his mouth shut. 

“Such a good boy.”

The train clatters on, and in one corner of the car a lamp sputters and nearly goes out. They had offered him electric lights at the beginning of all of this and he had refused. 

Fire has served him well enough for millennia, he will not betray it now. 

His lips latch onto Alex’s and he takes that mouth with the same self-assuredness he takes every piece of the boy. He raises himself up on his knees and Alex slides backwards with a gasp, trying to catch himself before he spills onto the floor, but Imhotep has him. He keeps the boy’s mouth in place with a bite to his bottom lip as he wraps his arms around his boy's to keep him steady.

He uses his superior strength to lower the youth down onto his back, bracing his own bulk on his elbows. Licking into the depths of the boy’s mouth he sucks away his breath and leaves the teenager gasping, spots in his vision as he pants against the priest’s mouth, squirming as Imhotep begins a steady, heavy roll of his hips down against Alex’s body. 

The boy has been taken so many times now his entrance yields easily to Imhotep’s fingers, familiar with the press and shape of his master. The priest slides one finger in dry, just to the second knuckle, and strokes the interior flesh gently. Alex trembles, his brow furrowed in concentration as his body tightens on the invading digit. 

“Fuck-” he whimpers, high pitched and reluctant and beautiful. Imhotep strokes the boy’s walls several more times than drags the finger tip back out slowly. 

“Oil.” He commands, and something inside him warms at the quick way Alex replies, opening wet eyes to search for the small bottle the priest always keeps near them and reaching out one slim arm to grab it. 

“Good.” Imhotep praises. “Very good child.” 

The oil is poured, Imhotep’s fingers return - two, now - and he does not hesitate to bury them as deep as he can. His own eyes slide shut as he savors the teen’s warmth, seeking the boy’s prostate and rubbing slow circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves. He gets the boy to begin to roll his hips in a rhythm, his whole body straining towards greater stimulation. Alex's eyes slide shut, a state he favours when Imhotep takes him.

It presents such a lovely challenge. 

“If you do not open your eyes and look at me little one, I will have to find other ways to make certain you remember to whom you belong.”

Alex’s eyelids flutter open at that, a sliver of unease crossing his features until Imhotep smiles and curls his fingers and chases the fear away. 

O’Connell’s brows stitch together as he shivers through a bolt of pleasure, determination filling his gaze as he trains his eyes on his keeper. 

“Good boy.” Two fingers are removed and three invade in their place. They bring more oil, more breadth, and their press is smooth and slick against that velvety muscle. “You may close your eyes when I’m inside you, if you wish.” The priest grants him merciful permission and something hitches on Alex’s face, his eyes watering as he fights to keep them open. 

“Fuck-” The child groans again and Imhotep smirks as he drops his lips to the boy’s cheek and presses a gentle kiss there. 

Inside the boy he flexes his fingers, testing, and finds him ready. 

“Prepare me.” He murmurs against Alex’s ear and Alex shudders, hand reaching out blindly for where he last remembers the oil being. It takes him a moment, but he makes contact with the bottle and uses his thumb to pop the large stopper out. Imhotep can hear the glass roll across floor, feels the boy flex and stretch to heft his shoulders off the floor and bring the bottle between them, pouring it with shaking fingers over his erect flesh. Imhotep inhales slightly at the feel of cool oil on his burning flesh, but keeps his body perfectly still. He catches the scent of them: the faint sweetness of the lubricant and the heady salt of their sweat mingling in the hot damp space between them and he breathes deeper, eyes hooded as he savors the flavor. Both his hands have crept to Alex’s thighs, and he cradles the tops of the wiry boyish thighs which are spread against the girth of the older man’s body. The soft skin is a treasure under his palms. 

“Enough.” He murmurs after a few moments of the boy's inelegant attempts to coat his cock. Trembling Alex sets the bottle aside and lays back again, keeping his eyes open but his head tilted back and gaze fixed somewhere on the roof of the car. Over his flushed chest the jeweled collar spills and glints, beads rolling over his flesh as his chest expands and contracts in deep rapid breaths. The gold panels shimmer in the lamp light and Imhotep leans down to grant the panel resting over the boy's sternum a tender kiss. 

Then he leans back and shifts the boy’s hips up higher in his lap, pushing his thighs wide and exposing his rosy, well-loved entrance. He pauses for a moment and the thighs under his hands flex, tightening around his waist.

“Please-” Alex lets loose a broken whimper, and his eyes are closed now but Imhotep grants him the lapse. He wraps his hand around his own cock and positions the wet head against Alex’s wetter body. He is not as unaffected as he would have his boy believe and he fights against a bolt of intense pleasure which shoots through him at even this small motion. 

“As you command.” He answers, voice gone rough with desire, and he presses _in_. 

Neither time nor repetition has made this initial moment of intimate connection any less glorious. Imhotep’s entire body heats up, his eyes widen, his nostrils flare. To have his prize like this, to possess him- 

Under him Alex whines and Imhotep barely contains the fury of his delight. 

In no mood to tease Imhotep sheathes himself fully and gives the boy but a few moments to adjust to his presence, then he begins to thrust, each roll of his hips pushing thick and deliberate into Alex’s body. 

The priest exhales heavily and the young body under him bows back, his shoulders pressing against the floor of the train car as he grunts and pushes to meet his master’s thrusts. Glass beads clink against each other, a musical counter to each hitching keen.

Imhotep blinks and feels a crest of delight building inside him. Alex has been getting better over the course of their encounters- sweeter, more pliant- but tonight the boy is _hungry_. His body squeezes Imhotep, milking him for more pleasure, more power, more _anything_.

With a growl from low in his chest, the priest obliges.

Imhotep fucks in deep punishing circles. Alex, closed eyed and flushed, yelps as he strikes viciously at the boy’s prostate, pummeling into the pleasure spot, rocketing Alex towards an orgasm. 

The teenager’s face screws up in expression of ecstasy, a faint sheen of tears glittering from between his eyelids, his skin rosy pink from strain as he pants heavily, his whole body juddering from every one of Imhotep’s impacts. 

His attempts at stoic silence dissolves to breathy grunts and strained whimpers as his master fucks him, fucks him, fucks him, and he is learning. His body is no longer his own, he has been remade for this. 

Hands which scrabbled helplessly with the floor spring up and wrap around Imhotep’s sweaty back, digging in for purchase, pulling the older man’s body flush to his own, pressing them chest to aching, sweaty chest. Alex’s nipples are pinched and abused by the beads crushed between them and he fucking _loves it_ , crying out as Imhotep hitches him up higher in his lap and opens up Alex’s body just a little bit more. 

“Fuck-” His voice so hoarse and Imhotep laughs, his own orgasm rushing up on him with unexpected speed as Alex’s body milks him so desperately for his seed, hungry. 

Imhotep laughs louder, his head hovering over the boy’s neck where he takes turns between licking and sucking and whispering filthy promises into his prize’s ear. “I am going to fill you, boy.” 

For a moment Imhotep thinks the teenager’s eyes will spring open, but the moment passes and Alex’s eyes shut tighter, his lips clamping together in a show of renewed determination, and the priest laughs. 

“You are going to sit on my cock, pretty one, until your little cunt clenches down on me and swallows my seed. Then I will take you again, and again, until you are as wet and dripping as a woman, so much of my come filling your body you will stay wet until I have need of you again.” Imhotep’s hips piston forward furiously, fingers like claws as they dig bone deep bruises into the tops of the boy’s thighs, his head tilted to the side and eyes distant as he savors the clench of his young bedmate around his cock. 

Alex lets out a wail, spasming as Imhotep’s words begin to have their desired effect. Alex is coming, his hips loosing all rhythm, pressing up into Imhotep’s thrusts in tight, desperate pushes, needy, needy-

“You are not allowed to be left empty, child.” He emphasizes this by reaching down to grab the boy’s aching prick and he squeezes it viciously before he begins to stroke, drawing long pulses of come out of the yelping body. “We will keep you full.”

“Fuck!” The boy bears down like a vice and Imhotep roars as his own orgasm peaks. He feels his balls draw up tight to his body as he slams his cock in deep and rocks roughly against the boy, letting him milk his seed, take it into his body, swallow it and absorb it. The boy contracts around him, and snarls burst out of Imhotep’s throat unbidden, a desperation in him to have this boy, to claim him as deep as he possibly can, to _devour him_.

Pleasure surges and ebbs in Imhotep’s veins with each breath and he falls over the boy, holds them tight together for a long time, reading the hitch and swell of each of Alex’s breaths as his own lungs fight through the singing of delight to regain equilibrium. 

The air is warm around them, the motions of the train steady and gentle and before long Imhotep can feel the boy beneath him relaxing, soothed after their activity by the relative quiet and stillness and fondness swells in his breath. 

Chased closely by evil delight. 

Alex squirms under him, his hands coming up to push at his chest. “Get off.” He murmurs without any heat and Imhotep laughs and pulls up, drawing his still half-hard prick from Alex’s body and raising to his knees. The boy starts to wiggle backwards, shuffling out from under him. 

Imhotep’s hands which wrap around his hips put a stop to that. Alex stills instantly, looking up at the bigger man with a furrowed brow.

“What?” He croaks, and Imhotep smiles silently, then pulls the boy’s hips up and coaxes him around until he’s on all fours. 

“Imhotep, for god’s sakes-” Alex’s voice goes up in pitch, but he struggles only lightly against the physical instruction and Imhotep is pleased. 

When Alex is steady on his knees Imhotep puts one achingly hot palm to the base of the boy’s spine and smooths it slowly all the way up to the boy’s nape, then he pushes _down_ , pressing against Alex’s whinging resistance until the boy’s shoulders and chest are to the floor, his forearms braced over his head.

“Did you think I spoke in jest, child?” He murmurs quietly over Alex’s protests and the youth goes silent. “You will swell with my seed before the end.” He reaches around and touches the boy’s abdomen gently, almost reverently, and kisses the nape of his neck. 

“No-” Alex whines and Imhotep soothes him with a hand down his side. 

“Yes, child.” With two finger tips he brushes the hot flushed skin surrounding Alex’s entrance, feeling the slick trace of semen which has slipped from the boy’s body in the few minutes he’s been outside of it. It’s unacceptable. 

“Again.” He commands, determined, and beneath him the boy whimpers before he’s filled once more.


End file.
